Climbing my eyes
while filling mornings
the sorrow and the noise
one kind of space
this language ghostly
shaped as burned bones.
Imaginary numbers building
an orange waterfall of feelings
like a sun exploding in sunrise
or the first step of the light
when the light was born.
Under the skin, my skin,
a flagrant tactic’s book
conquering thoughts a
marked alphabet named whisper
of pain and dysfunction.
Do I survive the tremendous episode
of being a turnable figure of western culture?
I’m not a figure, I’m caos, I’m a single eternity
puzzle abandoned to the flow of the holly blood
meaningless fire’s manantial: this inner universe
this inner sun, becoming black and white noise
as an early XX century photography. And there,
where the island of memories arise and modeled
a turning ashes soul, my name is closed because is broke.
Inside this budget of tragedy the gray instant spoke inmaterial.